


watching the water make love to the land

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Jamie looks after him when he's all depressed and mopey, M/M, Stevie takes it poorly and moves in with Jamie, Xabi himself isn't in it too much actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-14 07:50:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20597276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: After Xabi tells him he's going to leave, Stevie goes back to his own house. But he can't stand to go in, not knowing that Xabi's clothes are in his closet, that Xabi's toothbrush is in his bathroom.He panics, and instead of going in, he goes down two houses and rings the bell.“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” a voice calls from inside, and a moment later, Jamie’s opening the door, wearing a pair of pajama pants and no shirt.“Stevie,” he says, surprised, “are you okay? What’s wrong?”“Can I stay here tonight? Please, J.”Jamie doesn’t say another word, just opens the door wider, letting him in.





	watching the water make love to the land

That Captain Fantastic is sleeping with the Spanish wonder is the worst kept secret of the Liverpool dressing room. It never leaves the club, but whenever they’re late to training (and it happens more than a few times), there are significant looks and filthy jokes muttered about morning delight, and Jamie turns a deaf ear to most of it. He doesn’t care to hear them talk about his best friend like this, in such a crass, awful way, even if he doesn’t love Xabi as much as everyone else seems to.

As the season winds down, the rumor mill picks up and there are lots about Xabi moving to Real Madrid, some of them even suggesting that Stevie will go with him.

Xabi, Jamie would believe. It makes sense, that he’d go back home, to play for one of the biggest clubs in the world—Liverpool is one of the biggest clubs in the world, too, but being in his home country makes a difference.

But there’s no way that Steve would go, he thinks to himself. This is his home, he thinks to himself, this is his family, his boyhood club—

There’s a small part of Jamie that still wonders, though, because he’s never seen Stevie like this before, not about anything, and if it’s this serious, then maybe he will go after him. That’s the kind of sacrifice you make for someone you love, if it’s serious. And Jamie knows it’s serious, the way he looks at Xabi, the way he talks about him, the way he looks around the room when he’s not there like a lost lamb before settling back in next to Jamie.

It’s okay, though. Jamie’s comfortable being second choice. Okay, maybe not comfortable. Maybe he’s just resigned to it, at this point.

\---  


Xabi’s warm in the bed, and the weather is already warm enough, and Stevie kicks at the sheets until a wave of fresh, cool air hits his bare skin.

Xabi’s whispering to him in Spanish that he half-understands at this point, soft, sleepy words of adoration.

“Shower?” Stevie asks him, “el baño?” That means bathroom, not shower, but he’s forgotten the word, and he sounds stupid speaking Spanish anyway, no matter that Xabi tells him it’s hot.

“Un minuto,” Xabi murmurs, wrapping an arm around him again. “Amor, I—I wanted to tell you something.”

“Qué?” Stevie asks, because Xabi’s frowning, and he always smiles when Stevie says qué instead of what. But he doesn’t smile this time.

Instead, he looks up at him and sits up, covering himself with the sheets as if this is a conversation that is too important to be had naked.

“My agent, he got a phone call from Madrid this morning.”

Stevie feels something, the skin over his spine crawling with apprehension. “I don’t reckon you’re tellin’ me this just so you can tell me you said no to ‘em?”

Xabi shakes his head, and Stevie hates him for a moment. He hates him with all of the passion with which he loves him, for having this conversation here, in their bed, after they’d just made love.

“So you’re goin’, then,” he says flatly, “congratulations, mate. Or should I say felicitationes?”

“Felicidades,” Xabi corrects absently.

“Right. Glad you cleared that up for me,” Stevie mutters, shifting to stand up and go to the bathroom, any hope for a round two evaporating.

“Stebie,” he says clearly, “wait. They ask if you will come too. They want both.”

“What, so your deal is contingent on my saying I’ll go with you or something? A package deal?”

Xabi shakes his head quickly. “No, they want me, no matter what. But they want you too, if you say yes. I tell them I will talk to you about this.”

Stevie suddenly feels sick. He thinks back to a couple of hours earlier, Xabi whispering to him in the locker room—come back to mine tonight, amor—and how his heart had leapt, how he’d said yes because of _course_ he’d said yes, he didn’t know if he even knew how to say no to Xabi Alonso, not anymore—

Maybe it was all part of the plan. The flirting during training, tamped down just enough so that nobody called them on it, the drive back to Xabi’s place, with his hand resting on Stevie’s thigh and creeping further and further north as they’d gotten closer, the way they’d been at each other the second they got home, ripping at each other’s clothes and falling into bed as if there was nothing else in this world that mattered as much as this, as them…

“When did they call you?”

“Yesterday night.”

Ah. That phone call. The one that Xabi had looked at and taken outside, leaving Stevie with their dinner, wondering what was so private, half-suspecting that maybe he was seeing someone else on the side, because of the way he’d looked so damn shifty…

Well, he’d been right in a way, he thinks to himself.

“Right.” He says, because there’s nothing else to say. He gets up and strides across the room.

“Stebie!”

He turns around, for the first time a little bit self-conscious about his nudity. But it would look strange to suddenly want to cover up now, now when they’ve been sleeping together for almost four years now.

“Yes, Xabi?” he hears a fatigue in his own voice that he’s never heard there before.

“Will you come with me?”

Stevie thinks about it for a moment, allows himself to imagine a brand new life, setting off with nothing familiar except Xabi, except the warmth of his arms, the feeling of his lips, the heat between them. He thinks about being surrounded by people speaking a language he doesn’t understand. He thinks about wanting to visit his mother or his father or his brother and not being able to without taking a flight. He imagines, briefly, the look on Carra’s face when he tells him, the way it would be shock at first, then horror, and then, eventually a very quiet sadness, because Carra knows what it is to be left behind, knows what it is to be second best to a hollow white shirt.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, because he doesn’t want to say no quite yet, “I’ll think about it, Xabi.”

He goes into the bathroom and locks the door so Xabi can’t come in. It’s not a normal day, where they can kiss in the shower like young loverso who can’t bear to be separated from each other.

He showers quickly, clinically, and wraps a towel around his hips, dressing quickly in the bedroom. Xabi watches him, looking a little perplexed.

“I’m going home,” Stevie mutters, “I need time.”

“Stebe—“

“See you later, Xabi.”

“Stebie,” Xabi says, a little desperate, “let me drive you home at least. We came in my car.”

“I’ll take the fucking _train,_ Xabier,” Stevie snaps at him, unable to keep calm when he’s still so angry. He hates Xabi for this, for controlling even the way he leaves his house—

Xabi catches his arm before he can slam the door behind him.

“Let me know, at least. Tell me when you get home, amor, please. Or I’ll worry.”

It’s not too much to ask, but Stevie wants to say no anyway, doesn’t want to give in to a single one of Xabi’s requests right now.

“Fine.”

Xabi lets go of his arm and for a moment, his skin feels cold where it had been so warm before.

It’s dark outside and he walks to the train station, his skin breaking out into goosebumps from the cool air of the Merseyside spring.

He sits on the bench and thinks about how warm it must be in Madrid, lets himself think for just a second that perhaps that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, settling somewhere the air was warm as it held him in its embrace.

Then he wonders if it’s really that easy. Is he really the sort of man who is so easily swayed by such petty things? Is he going to leave home because of the fucking _weather_?

Of course not, he reassures himself, of course he’d leave for Xabi, and the weather would maybe be another thing—a feather on the scale that might eventually shift the balance.

He jumps on the train when it arrives. It’s late, he realizes, even before he looks at his phone to check the time. It’s late, and he knows it, because there are no families on the train, hardly any women, and only a few men, looking ragged. Most of them are sleeping. Some of the people who are actually awake give him a second look and stare, but they don’t ask for an autograph or a photo. Not at this hour.

He sits alone and nobody speaks to him. The train rumbles on, and Stevie looks through the window at his city and tries to imagine a life anywhere else.

He gets off at his stop and walks to his house, passing the security guard that’s posted outside of his neighborhood with a nod and a wan smile. He enters the code and the gate opens and he’s on the street. He walks until he’s in front of his own house, staring at it. He even walks up the drive, until he’s standing at the front door, unable to stomach the thought of going in. He knows what he’ll see—Xabi’s coat in the closet, Spanish food in the fridge, a spare pair of Xabi’s goddamn glasses on his nightstand.

He takes a step back, and then another, and another, and finally, he turns his back to the house—his own personal house, haunted with the spirit of a man who’s still alive, and flees.

He walks down the street, a few more houses until he finds the one he’s looking for. He takes a moment to feel a surge of preemptive regret, but he knows that he’ll be welcome here regardless.

He walks up the drive and rings the doorbell. He waits a couple minutes and rings it again. He pauses a long while and goes to ring it again.

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” a voice calls form inside, and a moment later, Jamie’s opening the door, wearing a pair of pajama pants and no shirt.

“Stevie,” he says, surprised, “are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“Can I stay here tonight? Please, J.”

Jamie doesn’t say another word, just opens the door wider, letting him in.

Stevie toes off his shoes and steps into Jamie’s living room, dropping onto the sofa with a sigh.

“I need a drink,” he announces, acutely aware of the misery in his voice.

“No, you don’t, Steven,” Jamie says firmly, sitting down next to him, “not for the next two weeks you don’t, until we’re done with the season. And then I’ll take you out myself and buy you as much booze as you need.”

Stevie laughs, a miserable broken sound that makes the lines around Jamie’s eyes deepen in concern.

“It’s gonna be a lot,” he says, “Xabi asked me to go to Madrid with him.”

Jamie goes motionless, so quiet and still that Stevie has to crack open his eyes to make sure he’s still there.

“You’re going, then,” Jamie says softly, “it’s okay, Steve, it’s okay, you’ll have time to say goodbye to the people you love—“

“I’m not fucking going, J.”

“No? But you love him.” There’s a question in it, just barely there, as if Jamie’s not quite sure he’s allowed to say it.

“Yeah, I do,” Stevie concedes, “I do love him, J. It’s just—I don’t love him more than I love home.”

Jamie nods, still looking a little confused.

“You don’t owe anybody here anything,” he says carefully, “you’ve given this city so much. You’re allowed to think of your own career, too. It’s a good club. You’d have a lot of success.”

“Maybe,” Stevie agrees, “But I’d rather succeed here than succeed there, J, even if I never win anything again here and they win a dozen European Cups. If I went, then someday, I’d get old, or I’d get injured, and they’d chew me up and spit me out. They wouldn’t care if I’d given them my youth, or years of my life, or everything I had in me. And at the end of it, I’d be stuck somewhere that isn’t home.”

“You could always come back,” Jamie offers.

Stevie shakes his head. “Once you go, you’ve gone, J. Look at Mickey, he had the chance to come back, but he didn’t. You don’t think that was actually about the money, do you? The money was an excuse. He was just afraid, that’s all. He’s a fucking coward about these things, and honestly, I can understand it. What if he’d come back and the fans never accepted him again? He doesn’t have a _home_ anymore, J. I’m not making that mistake.”

Stevie looks at him and Jamie’s jaw is clenched for a moment until he lets out a slow exhale.

“Shit,” Stevie mutters, “J—Jamie, I’m really sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Jamie says quietly, “it was a long time ago, he made his choices. I—I don’t think he was as bad as you say he was, but that doesn’t really matter right now.”

“It matters to you, so it matters to me,” Stevie says softly.

“Well, we can talk about it later. Why aren’t you at home, Steve?”

“Because everything there fucking _reminds_ me of him,” Stevie confesses, “his clothes in my closet, his toothbrush in my bathroom, his glasses on the bedside table—I can’t get away from him, and all I want is to get away from him for a little while.”

“Then stay here. As long as you need. Even longer than tonight, if you want. I’ll get you some pajamas or something—do you want me to run down to yours, grab some from your closet?”

The offer makes the knot Stevie’s been carrying around in his gut ease up a little bit. “Nah, can I just borrow some of yours?”

“Course, mate. Come on, let’s go upstairs, you can have a nice little shower and I’ll get you some pajamas and a toothbrush.”

“Okay,” Stevie says quietly, letting Jamie help him up to his feet, letting him guide him up the stairs with a hand at his back, guiding him into the spare room. He even starts the shower for Stevie, who doesn’t have the energy to tell him he’d showered before leaving Xabi. He wouldn’t mind another one, anyway, one that actually made him feel clean instead of just mechanically doing what he needs to do.

“Leave the door unlocked, yeah? I’ll just drop off the clothes and toothbrush in here so when you get done, you can just change and brush and go right to bed.”

Stevie nods and starts stripping off his clothes, testing the water with a hand and stepping into the warm spray of water.

Jamie taps on the door a couple of minutes later, coming in and setting the clothes on the counter with the toothbrush on top, before ducking out again.

Stevie steps out of the shower and dries off quickly, feeling a little bit better now, muscles all warm and relaxed.

Jamie’s sitting on the bed when he comes out, dressed in Jamie’s pajamas.

Jamie looks at him for a moment, and then swallows.

“You gonna be okay falling asleep? I have a few sleep aids from the physio if you think you might need one. No dreams, non-addictive, no hangovers.”

“You had me at no dreams,” Stevie muttered, climbing under the covers.

Jamie hands him a pill and a glass of water.

“I’ll wake you in the morning, okay, early enough that we won’t be late to training.”

Stevie nods.

Jamie looks at him and leans down, kissing his forehead and brushing a hand through hair that’s still damp after Stevie’d run a towel through it.

“You are a fucking _incredible_ person, Steven Gerrard. And I don’t mean because of what you can do on a football pitch, okay? I mean just as a person. You can get through this, I swear you can.”

Stevie doesn’t expect to feel better, but somehow, some part of him believes the words, because it’s Jamie Carragher saying them and he’s never lied to him, not once since Stevie was sixteen. That knot in his gut loosens a little more, so he can breathe a little easier.

His eyes are starting to feel a little heavy. It must be placebo effect, because there’s no way the pill’s already kicked in.

But still, he looks up at Jamie and takes his hand.

“Thanks,” he says quietly, “thanks for being here, J. You’re always there, no matter what, and it—it means a lot.”

“Course, Steve. Sleep well. Tomorrow’s a new day.”

\---  


“Wake up, Steve,” Jamie says to him quietly, sitting next to him on the bed, and touching his shoulder gently.

“Xabs,” Stevie murmurs, half-smiling before he opens his eyes.

“Sorry to disappoint, mate,” Jamie says lightly, “just me. Come on, I made you breakfast. I can loan you something to wear if you want, or we can go back to yours this morning, grab some things. Whatever you want, Steve.”

“Tea,” Stevie mutters.

“Done. It’s on the table downstairs. Now I’m not gonna bring it up here to you, princess, you need to go down there and have it at the table like a grownup.” Jamie’s teasing, and Stevie looks up at him and smiles.

“Asshole,” he mutters.

“Aww, thanks, baby, love you too,” Jamie says playfully, “now come on, let’s go downstairs and eat.”

He gets up and Stevie grabs his wrist. “Just to be clear, J, I’m not.”

“Not going to come downstairs? You can try to outstubborn me, Steven, but we’ll see how that works for you—“

“No. I’m not disappointed that it’s you.”

Jamie’s a little surprised by that, and he smiles just a little bit, clearly pleased.

“Good, because I’m the one putting a roof over your head,” he says playfully, “now come on.”

Stevie lets himself smile, because he wants to, and he follows him downstairs.

“Can you stay close today? Be my partner when we have partner drills and stuff like that?”

“The boys’ll talk,” Jamie warns, “they love to talk. They’re more gossipy than my mum and her friends.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I don’t give a shit what they’ve got to say about me, then,” Stevie returns, voice hard.

Jamie grins at him. “That’s my boy,” he says with a proud smile, “yeah, I’ll stay close.”

Stevie grins at him and goes to add sugar into his tea.

“Don’t—“ Jamie warns him, “I put in sugar before I woke you, it’ll be too sweet if you add more.”

“You still remember how I take it?”

Jamie shrugs. “It was years in a room together once a week, so yeah, I still remember. I’ve got lots of useless shit memorized, though, so don’t you go getting a big head, Gerrard.”

“Me?” Stevie asks, giving him the most innocent look he can muster up, “I would never, Carra.”

Breakfast is good, with lots of laughter and jokes and memories, and once they’re done, Jamie takes a look at him.

“So, do you wanna borrow something of mine, or should I get dressed and we can head over to yours, pick up some things?”

“Can I borrow something for today?” Stevie asks, because it’s the coward’s way out, but he doesn’t mind being a coward, not today, “we can pick up some stuff on the way back, maybe? If you don’t mind me being around a little longer.”

Jamie shrugs. “It’s nice to have company,” he says with a little smile, “and it’s even nicer to have good company, so you can stay as long as you want, mate. Hell, move in if you want to, I don’t mind.”

When Stevie looks at him, he doesn’t see anything but honesty, and he wonders.

“When’s the last time you had a date, J?”

“The fifth of none of your business, Steven.”

“I mean it.” Jamie’s never not answered a question that Stevie’s asked him. He’s always been an open book—this is strange, that he has no lover, when he’s such a good man.

“It’s been awhile,” he allows, “but I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy to take someone to bed?”

“Too busy to do the whole dating, wooing, trusting someone else slowly until I can’t imagine life without them. That sort of thing.”

“It’s too bad,” Stevie says quietly, “you’re a good man, too, J. You’re everything you said I was last night. Someone would be lucky to be yours.”

“Yeah? You been talking to my mother, Steve? That’s usually her line. You two on the same side, that’d be me done for!”

Stevie lets it go, because that’s what Jamie wants, and he watches the relaxation of his shoulders when he talks about something else.

“Just go up to my closet, pick out something to wear, I’ll clean up here.”

Stevie goes back upstairs. He walks down and into Jamie’s bedroom. It’s been a long time since he’s been here, probably not since Jamie’d given him the grand tour after he’d first bought this house. It’s peaceful, the bed unmade on one side but still perfect on the other. The covers have gray and dark blue stripes, and there’s a painting on the wall, of a ship in troubled seas.

He walks over to his closet and the first thing that hits him is the smell of Jamie on his clothes. He leans in close to the rack full of hangers and inhales deep, filling his lungs with the same cologne that Jamie had been wearing since they’d gotten their first professional contracts. It’s such a familiar, comfortable scent, and he can almost feel himself relaxing.

He closes his eyes and remembers falling asleep on Jamie’s shoulder on busses and airplanes, traveling all over Europe and all over the world. He remembers, for a moment, the feeling of being young, with a whole career stretching out in front of him, but still not being afraid, because he knew he was where he was supposed to be, with the people he was supposed to be with.

He hears Jamie’s footsteps on the stairs and he steps back, unwilling to explain why he’s smelling his best friend’s clothes.

“What, nothing in my wardrobe good enough for you, fashionista?” Jamie teases, standing close to him. He grabs a pair of jeans first, no fuss, and then looks at a couple of shirts before picking one of them, too.

“Don’t take too long, princess, I’m just going to go shower and change and I’ll be right out.”

Stevie makes a face at him and as Jamie turns away, he turns and kicks him right on the ass, just a light little tap to make sure that Jamie knows he’s not happy with the nickname.

“I prefer Captain!” he calls out, chuckling at the way Jamie flicks him off without even turning around.

“I’m sure you do, princess!”

Stevie can’t help but smile. He grabs another pair of jeans and a t-shirt that’s soft and a little worn, and he heads back to his room to get dressed, skipping the shower because he’d just had one before bed.

Jamie comes out a few minutes later and they settle in his car, driving to the training ground together.

“Pretend you don’t hear them,” Jamie says quietly as he parks, “you can do this, Steve.”

Stevie hadn’t even realized how much his teammates take for granted that he and Xabi are an item. He doesn’t realize it until he walks into the dressing room with Jamie right beside him and the team goes quiet.

Xabi’s not in yet, and a few pairs of eyes stay on the empty doorway, expecting him in any second, because of course he’ll be in right after Stevie.

“How’re the kids, Sami?” Jamie asks, a little louder than he needs to, strictly speaking.

Sami stares at him for a second before he answers and then the others just start to talk amongst themselves as normal.

Jamie changes quickly, next to Stevie, and then pulls him by the arm, telling the group at large that they’re gonna get a head start on stretching and warming up.

“Are they—have they been like that this whole time?” Stevie asks softly.

“They don’t mean any harm,” Jamie answers, which wasn’t the question, “and it’s usually when you two are late, jokes about what you’re up to instead, that sort of thing.”

Stevie swallows and takes off jogging. Jamie watches him for a few seconds before he joins him.

They’ve been outside for five minutes before the others come trickling out, Xabi among them.

Stevie is a little quieter than usual. Jamie compensates by being a bit shoutier, taking the attention onto himself so that nobody even looks at Stevie, not really. He still performs, still does all the drills to the best of his abilities.

They do partner drills together, and when they need a third for a little bit, Jamie stares pointedly at Sami until he gets the message and wanders over, asking if he can join them.

That’s how training goes, for the most part. They still click on the pitch, when Stevie and Xabi are put on the same side for five a side.

But then the whistle blows, he goes back to Jamie, half a step behind him so he doesn’t have to look Xabi in the eyes.

Jamie waits for him, catches him alone outside the showers. “Do you wanna go home with me, still? He’s out there, waiting to talk to you, if that’s what you want.”

“Not yet,” Stevie says softly, hearing the misery in his own voice, “I’m not ready to talk to him quite yet.”

Jamie looks at him, eyes all soft, and he pulls Stevie in for a quick hug. “Then get dressed and we’ll go home, Steve.”

Stevie dresses. While he does, Jamie goes over to talk to Xabi, voice low. Xabi responds to him, but he’s looking at Stevie the whole time.

“He’s just not ready yet,” Jamie says, as Stevie walks over, “I’m sure he’ll come talk to you when he is, though. He loves you, Xabi. He really, really does.”

Xabi nods, still looking at Stevie. “I love him too,” he says, knowing full well that Stevie can hear him, “you will remind him of this, yes?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he knows, but I’ll—I’ll remind him.”

“Let’s go home, J,” Stevie says quietly, wrapping his fingers around Jamie’s bicep.

Jamie looks at Xabi and mutters a quick goodbye, and then he lets Stevie tug him towards the car.

“So, how’re you doing?” Jamie asks him once they’re driving out of the car park.

Stevie thinks about the question. “Shit.”

Jamie opens his mouth to say something, but Stevie doesn’t give him a chance.

“Shit, definitely. But I was okay last night, and this morning, and I think going home will help make me feel… less shit.”

“Do you wanna go back to yours first? Pick up some of your clothes and things? Or I can drop you off, and I’ll go pick up some stuff, if you don’t want anything specific?”

“That’s a little pathetic,” Stevie says with a smile, “asking my best frined to go into my house and pick up my clothes so I don’t have to look at my—at Xabs’ stuff lying around.”

“Not as pathetic as not being able to sleep alone once your ex leaves you,” Jamie says with a bitter smile, “not as pathetic as having to ask your best friend to crawl into bed with you so you can actually sleep.”

Stevie thinks back to that time, so long ago now, how when he had held Jamie in his arms, he’d felt a little bit smaller, a little bit softer. He thinks back to that time and thinks that maybe Jamie is right. Maybe there are worse things.

“I’ll go, but can you come with me?” he asks finally, “please. I know which stuff is mine and which is his, and then you can stop me from turning into a little puddle on the floor when I see his glasses.”

“Done.” Jamie pulls up in front of Stevie’s house, and follows him in, heading straight upstairs without any hesitation.

Stevie looks around his bedroom, as if he’s forgotten what it looked like, after a day away. He looks at their bed, neatly made because Xabi always did it when he woke in the morning. He finds himself staring at Xabi’s side of the bed, at his nightstand with the book he was reading still sitting there.

Jamie coughs a little bit and steps forward, looking at the closet.

“What clothes do you want, Steve?” he asks gently, the words serving as a delicate little nudge.

Stevie finds a duffel bag and throws some clothes inside—a dozen pairs of socks, half his underwear drawer, a few of his favorite pairs of jeans, and half a dozen shirts.

“Good,” Jamie says lightly, taking the bag from him and then heading into the bathroom, “you should grab your shampoo and stuff, too. Cologne, toothbrush, whatever else you want.”

Stevie hadn’t even thought of those things, but Jamie’s right, and he dumps a few of them into the bag, too.

Jamie smiles at him once they’re done. “Great, now he can stop looking at me like he wants to tear me apart with his bare hands.”

“What?”

Jamie laughs a little bit, taking the bag from Stevie and carrying it instead. “Did you not notice? When he took a break from staring at you, he was busy glaring at me. You might want to tell him you’re staying in my spare room, and not in my bed with me.”

Somehow it just doesn’t compute. “He thought I was sleeping with you? And he still just let me walk away?”

Jamie catches his eye and stops abruptly, turning to look at him straight on. “He gave you the time you asked him for, that’s all. I shouldn’t have overstepped by talking to him, that part was my fault, definitely, but you asked him for time and he’s respecting that. That’s not nothing, Steve.”

“Why do you always defend him, J?” Stevie asks tiredly, “can’t we just hate him? Just for a little while longer?”

Jamie’s eyes soften and he nods. “I only defend him because you love him, Steve. I don’t want you to do anything you could regret, that’s all. If you can look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t love him anymore, then that’s it, we’ll move on.”

He looks at Stevie expectantly, and Stevie doesn’t say anything.

“That’s what I thought,” Jamie says softly, “let’s go back to mine, okay? I’ll drive, you walk, and I’ll give you a minute’s head start. Let’s see who can get there first!”

Stevie looks at him, a little incredulous, but Jamie just stares back. “This is a really poor way to use your head start, mate,” he says seriously, and then Stevie’s tearing down the stairs and running out the door. He gets outside and considers the distance, down his drive and on the road and up Jamie’s.

He says a silent apology to his neighbor and sprints across his yard and then his neighbor’s, seeing Jamie’s car start to move out of the corner of his eye.

“That wasn’t a minute!” he calls out to him, still sprinting. He’s in Jamie’s yard now, and he cuts across and hops over the flowers to get onto the path leading up to the front door. He arranges himself so he’s leaning up against the wall right next to the door, forcing his breathing to slow as Jamie comes up with his bag, rolling his eyes.

“What—took you—so long?” he asks, still huffing to catch his breath.

“Some maniac was running across everyone’s gardens,” Jamie tells him, “it was hard not to stare.”

Stevie grins as he turns the key and enters the house.

\---  


They settle into a routine, somehow. They sit together over breakfast and go to training, where they have lunch in between sessions. Then they come back home to Jamie’s for a nap and some tea, and they work together to assemble something that passes for dinner. It’s a lot of pasta, some takeaway, and some food they beg from the club to bring home and freeze.

Before he knows it, an entire week’s gone by, and he’s still avoiding his boyfriend—though he hates that term anyway—twenty-nine feels a little too old to be having a boyfriend, and living with his best friend, who still kisses his forehead every night and tells him how strong he’s been. Jamie still wakes him every morning, too, with breakfast already made, endlessly patient as he coaxes Stevie out of bed and down to the kitchen.

Stevie pokes a little bit more at why Jamie’s still single, because the more he thinks about it, the more it bothers him. The way Jamie’s treating him—if he were to treat a _partner_ that way, he’d be married by the end of the summer. But Jamie keeps avoiding the question.

Jamie returns the favor, though in a kinder way. He still pushes Stevie to think about talking to Xabi, still sings the praises of Real Madrid now and again, but he always backs off when Stevie’s hurting.

\---  


“What bothers you most about it?” he asks Stevie one day, “the fact that he’s leaving, or the fact that he wants you to go with him?”

“The fact that he was always gonna leave, whether I went with him or not. He’d already made up his mind before he even asked me. Real made him an offer, and he could have taken it or rejected it, but he took it. I had a relationship with him, and I was _in_ it, J, for good, honestly—but he took that and he made the relationship into an offer, letting me choose if I would take or leave it. Instead of putting us first, he put his career first. And it’s just—a reality check. He put what he wanted first, and he wants football more than he wants me. Not even that, he wants pretty shiny _trophies_ more than he wants me.

“He wants cold, shiny _metal_ more than he wants _me_. I let him _fuck_ me, J. I sucked his _dick_. I told him I loved him and brought him soup when he was sick and learned fucking _Spanish_ for him and he’s just—he can take me or leave me. That’s what I’m pissed about. He doesn’t love me like I love him, Jamie. Because I could never have done that to him. I would never have even _thought_ about it!”

By the end, he’s crying, and Jamie’s holding him, whispering his apologies, warm breath puffing against Stevie’s ear.

\---  


“How did it happen with Michael?” He’s hesitant to ask the question, but he needs to know. It’s the closest thing he has to look at for advice.

Jamie shrugs. “I told myself really early on that if I really loved him, I wouldn’t interfere with his career. When he came and started asking me about moving, about whether I’d want to move with him, maybe, I said that we should keep our careers separate from our relationship. He got upset about it, and then he left.”

“You didn’t want him to think about you before he made the decision?”

Jamie looks down for a second. “He was always more talented than me,” he says quietly, “I never wanted to be the thing that held him back from achieving his potential, that’s all. I guess I did want him to think about me, but I wanted that to come from him and not from me telling him he couldn’t go. That doesn’t make any sense, does it? I told you, it was stupid, and he wasn’t as bad as you think. It was mostly my fault, in the end.”

“You wanted him to choose you,” Stevie says kindly, “it’s not your fault that he didn’t.”

“It is when I told him not to, Steven. Anyway, that’s where Xabi’s different. He wants you to go with him.”

“Yeah, I guess he does,” Stevie mutters, “he just doesn’t know that that’s impossible, that’s an impossible thing to ask me—“

“Maybe you should tell him that, mate,” Jamie says, standing up. He leans down and presses a kiss to Stevie’s head, “he won’t just suddenly read your mind one of these days, y’know.”

\---  


Eventually, he does. He goes to Xabi and they talk for a few minutes after training. Jamie waits in the car, just in case he’s needed.

Xabi doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get why leaving home is such a big deal when he can just come back later—_after they don’t want you in Madrid anymore_ is the implication—and be back at home.

He doesn’t understand, not even when Stevie starts talking about Mickey and Jamie, and how that had worked out and the repercussions Michael would have to face for the rest of his life.

“So,” Xabi says tightly, “you love this city more than you love me. Just be honest and say it, Stebie.”

“You love your career more than you love me,” Stevie returns, more than a little bit annoyed, “otherwise you would’ve asked me _first_, instead of agreeing to move and _then_ asking if I wanted to tag along!”

Xabi’s mouth is turned down, the way it always gets when he’s upset at something—or someone.

“I guess that’s it, then,” he says finally.

“I guess so. It was good, Xabs, while it lasted.” That’s about all Stevie’s got to say about it, because he’s sure as hell not over how it’s ended, not so soon. “Come by my place when you get a chance and pick up your things. Bring my stuff back too, if you can, otherwise I’ll go pick it up.”

He needs to be able to walk into his own home again without that knot in his gut making him miserable.

He walks away from Xabi Alonso, knowing that it’s for the last time, and opens the passenger door of Jamie’s car.

“Let’s go home, J,” he says quietly.

Jamie, to his credit, doesn’t ask any questions, just puts the car into gear and _drives_.

\---  


It’s been a couple of weeks now. The season’s over. Xabi’s picked up all his things and left his key on Stevie’s countertop.

Stevie has to go there, to Xabi’s place, to pick up all his stuff, too. He keeps putting it off, until Xabi texts him to let him know his lease is ending soon—and that’s another punch in the gut that Stevie hadn’t been expecting, that Xabi still _rents_ his house, five years after he’d signed. Maybe some part of him had always known it would be temporary.

Either way, Xabi lets him know that he has to pick up his stuff soon. In the same text message, he also slips in a little reminder.

_They still want you at Real, Stevie. I’d like it if you changed your mind. _

Jamie rages at the text when Stevie shows it to him.

“That _bastard_! Where does he get off, telling you what to do with your career? What makes him think he knows better than you?! Just because he makes all his choices for one reason doesn’t mean everyone else is the same!”

It helps, that Jamie’s angry. It helps Stevie to be angry, too, reminds him that this isn’t a sign that Xabi still loves him—or perhaps it’s a reminder that it doesn’t matter, anymore.

What they feel for each other, or what they felt, once upon a time, it just—it doesn’t matter anymore. It _can’t_ matter anymore, or Stevie feels like he might just dissolve into a tiny puddle on the floor.

“Come with me,” Stevie asks, still looking at the curve of the letters that Xabi had typed in. He tries not to picture the motion of his fingers over the phone, tries not to remember the way he’d look when he was focused on something.

“Okay,” Jamie says, no questions asked. “Where to?”

Sometimes Jamie takes Stevie’s breath away, in these simple things. “To his place,” he clarifies, wondering what Jamie had thought.

“Okay,” he says again, “we’ll go. And then I’ll buy you a whole case of Carlsberg, and we’ll get plastered, okay? Celebrate.”

Somehow, when he says celebrate, it sounds like _drink away your sadness_. Frankly, it’s up there with the best ideas Stevie’s ever heard.

\---  


Walking with Jamie in Xabi’s house is strange. Jamie’s been over a couple of times, back when Xabi didn’t have a car yet and he was dropping him off, or to hang out with him, once or twice in the early days. But the house had looked different, then, still barren with boxes that Xabi had never gotten around to unpacking, no artwork on the walls.

Now, it’s a home being dismantled. There are boxes in a corner, still flat, waiting for Xabi to fold them and tape them and fill them up with his things.

Jamie follows him, half a step behind, and he looks around, at the sofa that Stevie had helped Xabi pick out, at the art on the walls—Xabi’s choices, largely, except for a large painting of the Mersey that hangs in the hallway, which Stevie had fallen in love with at first sight and bought on the spot. He’d lobbied for it to hang over the mantle in the living room, but Xabi had vetoed that idea out of hand, and so it hangs in the corridor.

“We’re taking this,” he tells Jamie quietly, “he won’t miss it. I bought the damn thing, anyway.”

He brings a duffel bag. He unceremoniously opens the closet and starts dumping in boxers, socks, jeans and t-shirts. There are even suits and dress shirts. He picks up the spare chargers for his computer, even grabs the extra toothbrush that’s sitting in the bathroom. He’s painstakingly thorough, searching through drawers he hasn’t opened in years.

He opens Xabi’s nightstand drawer, just because sometimes Xabi tidies up by dumping all the stuff into the drawer. There’s a printed copy of Xabi’s new contract sitting there, some notes written in the margins. There are condoms, too, and and some painkillers for the headaches he’d used to get when he was tired of speaking English all day.

Stevie closes the drawer and feels vaguely sick. He walks around the bed and yanks on the drawer to what used to be his nightstand. He starts mindlessly dumping things into the bag. Jamie meanders over, because he’s got nothing else to do, really. Stevie doesn’t say anything to him, just keeps going until the only thing left is a tube of lube. He glances over at Jamie, who’s not quite meeting his eyes.

“J—“ he says, not even sure where he’s planning on going after that word.

“It’s fine,” he says with a little smile, “I was with Michael for who knows how long, I know the mechanics of being with a man as well as you do, Steve.”

“I know you do,” Stevie says eventually, after he’s been quiet and thought about what to say. “and you know how long it was, J. It was four years.”

“I’m aware, Steven.”

The full name is out. If Jamie didn’t sound so tired, if there wasn’t the slightest edge of pain to his voice, Stevie would have been nervous, at the full name.

But it’s been so long, and Stevie can’t help but wonder—because if Jamie is still in such pain, five years after, then maybe he’ll hurt like this for just as long.

“Do you still love him?” he asks, because he knows Jamie will answer, even if it hurts.

“No.” The answer comes quickly and easily. “Well, yes, actually, I guess part of me will always love part of him. But no, not like you love Xabi, not like I used to love him. It’s just a painful memory, Steve. Not fun to think about.”

The house that had been a second home to him feels like a graveyard or a cemetery. They’re quiet, Jamie and Stevie both, as if they can almost feel the ghosts in the room.

“I think we both need a bit of a drink,” Jamie says softly, “take it or leave it, Steve, it’s up to you, but we need to wrap up here soon, I think. We’ll go home, watch some stupid comedy on telly, and I’ll even let you put your feet up on my sofa, if you’re good.”

Stevie has to smile at that, just the slightest bit, and he nods. He leaves the little tube and closes the nightstand drawer.

“One last check,” Jamie orders. They each do a round of the house, though Jamie doesn’t quite know which stuff’s Stevie’s and which isn’t.

They meet back in the bedroom and Jamie hesitates before he speaks.

“You could always steal one of his shirts,” he says, looking at Stevie with a pained little shrug, “I stole one of Mickey’s jumpers. I still have it, somewhere, in some shelf of the closet. But you could steal something of his and keep it, to remind you.”

Stevie thinks about it, heading back to the closet. He closes his eyes and inhales, and against his will, he thinks about how he’d done this in front of Jamie’s closet, too. He considers their smells, the way they differ, how Xabi’s smell has just a hint more spice in it than Jamie’s does, the way that Jamie’s is just a hint more familiar, after all this time, after sharing his home, and even his clothes.

He looks through Xabi’s clothes, remembering what he’d looked like in each shirt, each sweater. Finally, he picks up a tan sweater, softer than all the rest. He doesn’t put it in the duffel bag, just keeps it in his hand.

“Let’s go, J,” he says softly, feeling the soft wool between his fingers.

\---

He still hasn’t moved back into his own house, and Jamie doesn’t say a thing about it.

But now it’s the offseason, and they don’t have the comforting rhythm of training guiding their days, and it’s almost too easy to let himself sink.

He stays in bed until noon, until Jamie peers into his room and comes to sit down next to him.

“Come downstairs,” he says quietly, and Stevie just shakes his head, because he knows if he speaks, he might cry, and he doesn’t want Jamie to see him crying. Not over this. He’s twenty-nine years old, he thinks to himself, he’s too damn old to cry over a breakup.

Jamie stays there, sitting beside him until he falls asleep again. It’s hours later when he wakes up, limbs still heavy, the corners of his eyes crusted with grit.

Jamie’s asleep next to him, still sitting up against the headboard, where he must have been watching over him. It makes Stevie feel loved, and for some reason, that only makes him want to cry more.

He doesn’t go downstairs at all some days, so Jamie starts spending more time upstairs.

Jamie brings him his food on a tray, sits there and pleads with him until he sits up and eats it.

Stevie thinks back to that first day, when Jamie had told him he wouldn’t bring him his tea, his own subtle way of telling Stevie he wouldn’t coddle him or let him mope forever. He looks at the teacup on his nightstand, with the perfect amount of sugar, and he cries, just looking at it.

Jamie brings his laptop into the room, and they watch films on there, movies about young friends going on adventures. There are hardly any romantic plots, other than generic ones where the good guy sweeps a beautiful woman off her feet near the end.

Jamie nudges him out of bed to the shower. Stevie cleans himself mechanically, but it does feel good to wear fresh clothes and feel clean again. It’s even better when he comes out to find that Jamie’s put new sheets on the bed, fresh out of the dryer and still warm against his damp skin.

Thinking about Xabi nearly always sets him off, and Jamie’s careful to make sure there’s no mention of it, not even a single headline in the tab of his internet browser. They don’t watch Sky Sports, on the rare days that Stevie can be bothered to go downstairs and sit on the sofa.

He’s never had this much trouble just being _upright_ before. The knot in his stomach that he carries around all the time tightens a little bit every time he stands up, every time he looks out the window and thinks about what view Xabi must be seeing in Madrid, every time he thinks about his own house just down the street, that monumental expense that he’s already paid off only for it to sit there now, all of his things gathering dust.

Jamie reads to him, sometimes, when Stevie won’t do anything else. He reads him books about footballers who’ve never gone to Spain. He reads him short stories, because they’re easier to get through. He even reads him a spy novel.

It’s late one night and Jamie’s reading to him, and when his voice starts to give out, he asks if Stevie needs any water for the night. Stevie shakes his head, and as Jamie starts to shift in the bed, as if he’s going to go, Stevie’s chest fills with a strange panic. He’s going to be alone forever, he thinks frantically, _alone now, alone forever, alone now, alone forever, it didn’t have to be this way, he wanted you to go with him, you’re the one who said no, it’s all your fault, your fault, your fault_—

“What’s wrong?” Jamie asks him gently, grimacing at the wording of it because he knows exactly what’s wrong. That’s when Stevie looks down and sees his fingers clamped around Jamie’s wrist, holding tight.

“Don’t go,” he says very quietly, “please. Stay. Just for tonight, I promise—“

“You don’t have to promise,” Jamie says to him, “I’m here. I promise I’m here, Stevie. Let me go brush my teeth, okay? And then I’m coming right back here.”

Stevie nods, though his hand doesn’t follow his orders and release Jamie’s arm, not until he looks at it hard and focuses on releasing one finger at a time.

Jamie goes to his room to grab his toothbrush, and he comes to Stevie’s to brush, walking into his bathroom and leaving the door open.

It’s comforting, in a strange way, this small gesture that serves to tell Stevie that there’s someone here who’ll stay if he asks him to. There’s someone in this world who cares about Stevie, even when it hurts, even when he’s being awful and difficult and miserable to be around.

Stevie goes in next. Well, technically Jamie’s still in the bathroom, but Stevie goes in anyway, nudges him away from the sink to wet his own toothbrush before he puts the toothpaste on. Jamie lets him, but nudges back after, so he can spit and rinse. There’s something to this that feels good, even though Stevie’s still carrying that knot around with him. It feels a little looser, when he looks up and meets Jamie’s eyes in the mirror, cheeks puffed out as he swishes his mouthwash.

Jamie crosses his eyes when he looks at him, tilting his head to one side, and Stevie laughs so hard he ends up shoving him just a little bit so he can get to the sink and spit. Just half a second later, Jamie’s hands are on his hips, nudging him out of the way so he can spit and laugh, dimples carving deep into his cheeks and just a little bit of froth on his lip.

Jamie’s sitting on the bed, on the side that Stevie doesn’t sleep on. He’s wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants, even though he normally sleeps in just his boxers. Stevie wonders whose sake its for—whether it’s so that Jamie feels comfortable, or so that Stevie doesn’t feel—feel what, exactly?

Too close to another person’s flesh, so soon after Xabi’d left?

Suddenly, Stevie’s skin seems to cry out to be touched. He runs his hands up his own arms, but it’s not right, it’s not enough—

His fingers itch to feel the rough stubble, rasping as it drags along his skin.

Suddenly, he’s keenly aware of how long it’s been since his mouth has been kissed. He tries not to stare at Jamie’s lips.

“Are you okay? I can go back to my room,” Jamie says gently.

He’s always so gentle, Stevie thinks, that same boy who screams out on the pitch is always so gentle with him.

“No,” Stevie says, after what’s probably a bit too long, “stay here, J. I want you to. Just—you don’t normally wear a shirt to bed, do you? I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“I’m not,” he says simply, sidestepping the question, “come to bed, Steve, stop stalling.”

Stevie goes to the other side of the bed and sits down, pausing a moment before he slides his legs under the covers, laying down.

Jamie slides down, too, and when he’s laying down, he reaches out a long arm and clicks off the lamp, leaving them in the dark.

Stevie grows a little bit bolder. He shifts a little bit closer and takes Jamie’s arm in his hand, wrapping it around his waist. “Is that okay?”

Jamie, as always, goes where Stevie leads, and his arm is firm as it holds Stevie, and tugs him in a little closer.

They’re close enough now that if someone saw them here, like this, they’d assume that they were lovers, not just friends.

He hasn’t slept better in weeks.

When Stevie wakes, he’s wrapped in Jamie’s arms. His hand had taken the initiative at some point to sneak under Jamie’s shirt, and is now pressed happily against the warm flesh of his back.

He slips out to the shower, and when he gets back, Jamie’s gone, leaving nothing but the residual warmth of his body on Stevie’s sheets.

That’s the sort of thing Stevie would panic over, if he didn’t know that Jamie was probably off to have a piss, or to go downstairs and start breakfast, or to grab a shower.

In the end, Jamie’s back five minutes later with toast and eggs, and Stevie could think of worse things than breakfast in bed with his best friend.

That night, Jamie’s sitting in his room, on his bed, and when he announces he might turn in for the night, he sends Stevie a look. Stevie can’t quite read it, and he doesn’t say anything, so Jamie goes back to his own room for the night.

Over time, he learns that Jamie needs to be asked. Even if he’s stayed in Stevie’s bed every night for a week, the first time Stevie doesn’t ask him to stay, he’ll assume he’s not wanted and kiss Stevie on the forehead and wish him good night and head off as if they’ve never done anything else.

Stevie asks a lot. Not every night—sometimes he still sleeps alone—but a lot.

\---

“Get dressed,” Jamie orders him one day.

Stevie looks up at him, bleary-eyed and just a little bit surprised. He hasn’t left his room in two days, so there doesn’t seem to be much point in getting dressed.

“Come back to bed, J,” he says sleepily, both hands in the air making greedy grabbing motions.

“No, I won’t. Now get dressed!”

Stevie opens his eyes again, reluctantly, and sees that Jamie’s already dressed, in nicer clothes than he wears if he’s just going to be lounging around at home.

“Why?” he asks, a hint of irritation in his voice, “you’ve already seen me at my worst.”

“If this is your worst, you’re going to be just fine,” Jamie says firmly, going into the closet and grabbing a few things, “no, you need to get dressed because we’re going on a little trip for a few days.”

“You go.”

Jamie pretends to think about it. “No. We’re both going.”

“J, please—“

“Stevie. I need you to trust me here. We’re both going. Now come on, lazy boy, get up, get showered, get dressed, because we’re going on a trip.”

Stevie weighs his response. “Where?” he asks finally.

“It’s a surprise.”

If it had been anybody else ordering him to get dressed so they could take a trip, Stevie would have a few choice four-letter words for them.

“My passport’s still at mine,” he says instead.

Jamie’s mouth curves into this beautiful smile, and it’s enough to make the corners of Stevie’s mouth turn up, too.

“We aren’t going to need it. Now come on, get dressed. No breakfast until we’re on the road.”

Stevie gets up, feet feeling heavy, and lets Jamie practically shove him into the shower. He gets dressed and sits in the car and Jamie settles on the driver’s side with sunglasses that make him look strangely handsome, big dark lenses with a thin wire frame. He looks like he could be a spy in some film.

“How about you go on the trip and then you can send me the pictures,” he says halfheartedly as Jamie settles into the seat.

“Steven, you could at least try to sound like you’re excited,” Jamie says with a little grin, “it’ll be nice. And not too far, so we’ll just go off for a couple of weeks and then come home.”

“Okay,” Stevie agrees, realizing that when Jamie says home, he and Stevie are talking about the same place—Jamie’s house.

“Wake me when we get there, then,” Stevie says, to cover up the strangeness that comes from realizing that what _home_ means, _who_ it means, has changed.

He leans back and closes his eyes. Jamie mutters to himself, fiddling with the satnav, and then they’re off.

It’s not too long after that Jamie’s waking him to eat breakfast. It’s so good that Stevie might have to admit that maybe this wasn’t such a terrible idea after all. They drive on a little longer, until lunch, after an impromptu jam session where they were both singing in the car, first to Oasis, then to the Beatles, and then to Coldplay. It had been really nice, until Stevie had heard that Coldplay song that most reminded him of Xabi and then he’d gone quiet, all of a sudden. Jamie had looked at him, suddenly grim, and asked if he should skip the song.

“No,” Stevie had said, remembering Xabi dancing in the kitchen to this song and singing along, Spanish accent painting all his words in a way that Chris Martin could only dream of. “Let it play.”

They don’t speak again until lunch, and then they start up again, with hardly any awkwardness to it at all.

Finally, they’re driving along the coast.

“How much longer? Wait, never mind,” Stevie says, because as much as he’d complained, he doesn’t actually mind this. There’s a peace to it, to just sitting in a car that Jamie’s driving, one steady hand on the wheel while the other is resting against the open window. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been in the car, or how long they’ll be there.

“We’re almost there,” Jamie says quietly, “I think you’ll like it. I hope you do, anyway. It’s a good place to think and recover.”

“Sounds like you know.”

Jamie shrugs a little, eyes on the road. Stevie wishes he’d take off his sunglasses, at least for a minute. He misses Jamie’s eyes, the way they told him more than his mouth ever did.

\---

The hotel isn’t that big, but the room is clean, and it’s near the water. Their room has two beds, which is perfect, because if Stevie needs—well, if Stevie _needs_, Jamie will be there for the asking. He half-suspects he wouldn’t even have to ask. He wonders what would happen if he just slipped into Jamie’s bed one night, wonders if Jamie would jump or just sleepily wrap his arms around him.

Part of him wonders how much more he can ask, how much more Jamie will give him. He wonders when Jamie will get sick of him, of his moodiness and his neediness and his utter helplessness. When is he going to stop taking advantage of his best friend?

Not now, at least. Not here, in this small, wonderful place that feels like cool water after a day on the training pitch in the sun.

Stevie wonders at it. He couldn’t have tolerated a bright blue Caribbean sea, not now. It would be too picture perfect, when he still feels raw, exposed in this horrible way. But the slate gray Atlantic kissing the rocky English beach is just about manageable.

The air is cool, in this small town. They’re still in England, so of course they still get mobbed for photographs and autographs, and that’s okay, because then they get to just sit on some chairs by the beach, watching the waves.

They go to small cafes for breakfast, and wander the town’s streets, going to the cinema or to the shops. Anywhere they feel like, really.

In the cinema, Stevie feels the strangest impulse to hold Jamie’s hand. He doesn’t mean to give into it, but about halfway through the film, his fingers are touching Jamie’s. It’s not holding hands, but it’s the next best thing, and Jamie doesn’t pull away.

He still asks Jamie to sleep in his bed some nights. They brush their teeth together in the bathroom every night, and it’s a comfort that Stevie is slowly coming to need in his life.

Jamie holds him when he asks to be held, with no complaint. When Stevie doesn’t ask, he sleeps in his own bed, sprawled out across the double bed all on his own, and sometimes, when Stevie has trouble sleeping, he watches him, the rise and fall of his chest, the way the blankets drape over his body.

\---

“Why don’t you have a partner?” he asks Jamie one day. They’re sitting on the beach, Jamie on a towel on the ground, Stevie on a chair. Jamie looks up at him, and it’s a rare sunny day, so he has to squint a little against the light.

“Because I’m a cranky asshole who only cares about football,” Jamie says, so fast he doesn’t even have to think about it, and it makes Stevie wonder who had said that to him in the past.

“You’re not. You care about me.”

“I get angry. I expect too much from people. I don’t let people in,” Jamie says instead of responding to Stevie’s words.

“You’ve let me live with you for a month. I think that counts as letting people in.”

“I take football too seriously.”

“No, you take it just seriously enough,” Stevie corrects him, because he takes it just as seriously.

“I’m happy being alone.”

Stevie frowns, reaching forward and brushing some sand off of Jamie’s cheek. “No, you’re not, J. Tell me the truth, why don’t you have a partner?”

“Wouldn’t be right,” Jamie admits finally, “I—well, I had feelings for someone, for a long time. Still do, I guess. And it wouldn’t be right to be with someone else when I still—when part of me still wants this person.”

“Who is it?” Stevie’s confident he’ll get an answer, because Jamie never lies to him.

“I’m not going to tell you,” he says simply, and it leaves Stevie feeling strangely unbalanced, that he’s finally found something that Jamie’s not willing to give him.

He’s so thrown off by it that he doesn’t even beg or plead, just accepts it and sits in silence.

Jamie, on the other hand, pulls off his shirt until he’s just in his swim trunks. He walks out towards the water, step by step, walking into the cold water, and when he’s deep enough, he raises his arms over his head and dives in.

Stevie stands up, digging his toes into the sand. He steps forward too, one step and then another and another, until the water’s just lapping at his toes. He can just barely see Jamie’s arms, dipping in and out of the water as he swims out further and further out to sea.

Stevie considers following him, considers the cold water and the grit of the sand on his feet. He considers it, until his toes are almost numb from the frigid temperatures. He considers whether the water that kisses his toes will flow against the Spanish coast someday. That’s the closest he can come to Madrid, he thinks quietly, the touch of water against his feet that can touch against the Spanish shore someday. And even then, Madrid is well inland.

He considers it, and instead of wading in further, he just stands there, until the tide goes out and Jamie comes back in, shivering from the cold. He pulls on his t-shirt over his damp skin, and Stevie promptly drags him back to the room and forces a sweater over his trembling shoulders.

Jamie lets him do it all, though he does offer to just hop in the shower instead. But Stevie likes the smell of salt water on him, and so, selfishly, he revels in the soft wool against Jamie’s skin, running his fingers over it. Selfishly, he sits in Jamie’s bed and wraps him in his arms. Selfishly, he lets Jamie shift them until they’re laying down, and selfishly, he lets himself fall asleep.

It’s not until he wakes that he realizes that the sweater he’d helped Jamie into had been the one he’d taken from Xabi’s closet.

\---  


Stevie tries to stop asking Jamie to sleep in his bed. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t need it, or because it’s too much to ask. He insists, even to himself, that it’s not because he’s afraid that when Jamie wakes up, with Stevie in his arms, he wishes it was someone else.

The thought of that is just a little too painful to bear, and it’s too persistent to ignore, and so Stevie has little choice left other than to just… stop asking.

While they’re still away at the coast, it’s not too bad. Jamie’s still right next to him, in the next bed over. He’s still next to him in the cinema, when they watch another film. He’s still at the beach, on the beach towel while Stevie sits on the chair. He’s still in the bathroom, brushing his teeth while Stevie swishes mouthwash.

One day Jamie looks at him and smiles. Stevie’s sitting next to him, in his bed, watching tv.

“Do you wanna head home soon?” he asks Stevie, as if it’s all up to him.

“No, not really,” Stevie responds, with a sad little smile, “but we’ll have to, won’t we? Preseason’s starting back up next week.”

Jamie shifts so he’s a little closer and places his hand in Stevie’s hair and Stevie moves into the touch, shifting so his head’s laying on Jamie’s lap. He wonders if Jamie’s person would enjoy this the way he does, the mystery person that his best friend loves.

“We could stay a few more days, maybe,” Jamie offers, “make the most of the time we’ve got left.”

Stevie nods, and closes his eyes at the feeling of Jamie’s fingers in his hair, stroking steady and firm and gentle.

“J?” he asks, knowing without even opening his eyes that Jamie’s looking down at him, that look of tender attentiveness that makes Stevie feel loved and important to at least one person in this world.  


“I think I’m going to be okay. I’m not yet, but I think I’m going to be.”

“You know what, Steve?” Jamie says softly, “I think you will be, too.”

Stevie smiles up at him for a moment before turning back to the tv. “A few more days, then.”

“A few more days,” Jamie echoes, sounding a little sorry about it.

\---  


A few more days pass so fast it’s unfair, Stevie thinks.

It’s their last day. They spend it by the beach. They’re no longer a novelty in this town, not after two weeks of being here and doing absolutely nothing interesting.

Jamie pulls off his shirt and heads down to the water, which isn’t quite as cold as it has been. He wades in.

This time, Stevie follows him. The water feels less cold the longer he’s been in it, and they don’t go out too far, just enough to feel the earth fall out from under their feet. They splash each other and mess around and race and swim until their arms are tired, and then they walk back up to the beach, to where their shirts are laying on top of their towels.

They go back to their room and take turns in the shower before ordering some food up to the room.

Normally, they’d turn on the tv, just so they have something to talk about, but Stevie’s starting to realize that he and Jamie always have something to talk about anyway, and he takes the remote and hides it behind a pillow while Jamie’s on the phone.

“You said this would be a good place to recover and think,” Stevie says once the food is here and they’re sitting cross-legged on his bed, eating.

“Did I say that?” Jamie looks as if he genuinely doesn’t remember and maybe he doesn’t.

But Stevie does. “Yeah, you did. Did you come here, after Michael left?”

Jamie doesn’t flinch at the mention of his name—not here, in this place. “My brothers dragged me here,” he says quietly, “they didn’t know the full story, but they knew I was—well, they knew I was devastated. I think they suspected that he hadn’t just been a friend, and they brought me here. We stayed and—I don’t know. It helped, being with them, being here. And I hoped it would help you, too.”

“It did, J.”

\---  


He’s not eager to leave this little town—hell, he might come down here every year, now that he knows about it. But then, it wouldn’t be the same, he thinks, not if Jamie didn’t come, or if they came with other people too, friends or—or lovers. Stevie’s starting to think about that, in the abstract, the idea that he might have another lover someday.

Shockingly, it’s easier to think about that than to think about Jamie finding a partner. Maybe because he knows he won’t find anyone, not for a long time, but Jamie’s his rock and he could tell his person that he loves them whenever he wants to. They’d be a fool to turn him down, after all, and then he’d be gone. Stevie’s not stupid enough to think their friendship would be over—Jamie’s never been the kind to abandon his friends in favor of his partner—but it’ll be different. No more sharing a bed or whispering to each other in the night. No more making faces at each other in the mirror while they brush their teeth. It hurts, thinking about it.

He thinks about it for a long while in the car before the question just eats its way through his restraint.

“Are you ever going to tell your person that you love them?”

“Never said love, did I? I said I had feelings,” Jamie says evasively.

“I know you,” Stevie says, quiet and sure as he looks at the black lenses that keep him from Jamie’s eyes, “it’s love.”

Jamie keeps his eyes firmly on the road. “Might as well fill up the tank now, I guess,” he mutters, “better now than later.”

He pulls up to a gas station and parks the car. He’s just undoing his seatbelt when Stevie reaches out and touches his arm. Jamie goes still at the touch.

“Tell them, J. Doesn’t have to be right now, but when the moment’s right, tell them. They’d be an idiot to turn you down, y’know. And I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy. I have a great life.”

“Happi_er_, then. I want you to be happier. You could be happier, couldn’t you? If this person was yours and you were theirs and you were in love?”

Jamie stops and swallows, and Stevie wonders what his eyes look like, under the sunglasses.

“I guess I _could_ be happier,” he admits cautiously.

Does he look excited? Are his eyes full of anticipation? Or does he look afraid? As if he’s scared of being rejected? And who _is_ this person anyway? Is it a woman? A man? Someone on their team? That would explain the wariness about making a move, he thinks, unless this person is just so close that Jamie’s afraid of losing them.

Stevie’s startled out of his thoughts by the opening of the door, and then suddenly, he’s in the car alone, watching Jamie pump gas into the car. He stands with one hip cocked, one hand in his back pocket.

For a moment, Stevie thinks about Jamie’s person, and what they’re missing out on, because they don’t _know_ yet.

He pities them, but not much, because one day, they’ll get to be Jamie’s, and he can’t think of much that would be better than to be Jamie’s person.

Jamie drives them back to his house, and he sends Stevie inside to call for takeaway while he brings the bags in.

Stevie’s house is only two doors down, but Jamie brings his bag in and sets it down in his room, and Stevie knows then that he’s welcome to stay, and in the same instant, he knows that he’ll stay as long as Jamie will let him.

Jamie’s gone a few minutes later, just off to pick up their food and bring it home, and Stevie settles on the sofa to wait for him. He turns on the television and as he’s flicking through the channels, he sees Sky Sports, and he leaves it. There’s a headline about how Xabi’s deal has finally gone through, after some negotiation on the side of each club and on Xabi’s side as well, through his agent.

There’s a dull ache in his chest that suddenly roars to life, like a burn scar feeling the touch of flame again. He swallows past the lump in his throat and changes the channel to The Office, which he and Jamie both love.

When Jamie comes in with Thai food fifteen minutes later, Stevie smiles and sits just a little bit too close to him on the sofa, just for the warmth. After they’re done eating, he pulls Jamie’s arm around his shoulders and sinks into his body, letting Jamie hold him up.

Jamie does it, supports Stevie’s weight the way he always does. When Stevie whispers to him, asking him to sleep in his bed with him tonight, all his intentions to stop be damned, he agrees.

That night, when Jamie’s holding him, Stevie thinks about Jamie’s person. It’s _Jamie’s_ person, and he ought to like them, just for that, because Jamie has pretty good taste in people—well, except for Michael Owen.

But as he lays with his ear over Jamie’s heart, he thinks to himself that he doesn’t really like Jamie’s person at all, whoever the hell it is.

\---  


Preseason starts again, and it ought to bring Stevie a measure of peace. It gives him a routine, and he ought to be grateful for it. He gets out of bed every single day now. Jamie still wakes him up, even though Stevie had mentioned a few times that first week that he’d set the alarm on his phone and he’d be okay waking up himself. But Jamie still comes in and sits on his bed and talks to him gently and quietly until he’s awake, and it’s so much nicer than the alarm that Stevie starts setting the alarm for later, so that he can turn it off after Jamie wakes him.

He wakes up, and drags himself into the shower, and changes into his clothes, and when he goes downstairs, Jamie’s got his tea ready and something’s around for breakfast.

He ought to enjoy it, but it’s strange, training with the team. They look at him as if he’s an alien, and Stevie doesn’t know if it’s because they expected him to leave too, or because they haven’t seen Stevie-without-Xabi in four years, and this is a strange new creature they’re encountering.

It ought to feel good, to get back to some semblance of normal, but Stevie keeps thinking about the ocean, about the sound of the water against the beach. He keeps thinking about that moment, standing with his toes in the sand, watching Jamie swim further and further away from him.

Jamie sleeps in his own bed now, most nights. Stevie tries not to let on that it hurts and he hates it and he wants Jamie back. He feels like he shouldn’t ask anymore, now that he knows Jamie wants someone else.

He walks into the locker room once after training, having been delayed by the gaffer, who wanted to talk more about some things he’d seen. Jamie’s talking to one of the young kids, in a low, stern voice. He looks genuinely angry, and the kid looks embarrassed, as though he’s ashamed of himself, and when Stevie walks into the room, Jamie abruptly stops talking.

“Don’t let me catch you again, kid,” he says firmly, “tomorrow’s a new day, fresh start. No bad blood, I promise. Now go on, go home.”

The kid runs.

“What did he do?” Stevie asks as they settle into the car, “leave his boots lying about? Make a mess or something?”

“He was talking about things he doesn’t know or understand,” Jamie says, “and now he knows better. I’ve tolerated stupid gossip long enough. I should’ve stepped in ages ago.”

“Who were they gossiping about?”

“Nobody.” It’s such a blatant lie that Stevie doesn’t even count it as a lie, because it’s clear that Jamie doesn’t intend for him to believe it.

“Me, then.”

“Among other people.”

“Me and Xabi?”

“…Among other people.”

Stevie furrows his brows at that, because if it’s more than just Xabi and Stevie, then he doesn’t quite understand who else they could be talking about.

“Me,” Jamie admits quietly, “they had something to say about me and you and you and Xabi, and I’m not going to tell you what because it’s not worth discussing.”

He doesn’t have to. Stevie can imagine the sorts of things they’d come up with—rumors that Stevie’s shacked up with Jamie now, that Xabi had only left Liverpool because Stevie’d left him in favor of Jamie—none of it is correct, and none of it is good.

“I’m glad you straightened them out,” Stevie says finally, “it has to stop at some point. We can’t have people not respecting you.”

Jamie laughs, just a brief little chuckle. “No, Stevie. You’re the captain, we can’t have people not respecting _you_.”

Stevie wonders to himself whether it really is about them, about the dressing room atmosphere, or if it’s about Jamie’s person, how they’d feel upon hearing it and thinking that Jamie’s taken.

\---  


Jamie’s talking to his mother on the phone, and he’s got it pressed against his ear as he stirs the pasta sauce, warming over the stove.

“Mum, I told you—I’m really not interested. Please—“

“What’s she saying?” Stevie asks, taking over at the stove so he can have his hands free.

“She wants to set me up with someone,” Jamie mutters, “no, Mum, it’s not—he’s still at Newcastle—it’s Stevie. Remember, I said he’s been staying with me for a little bit? What? Oh. Because I’m lonely. Yes, that—well, that _is_ what I said, but—Mum, I’m serious, I’m _really_ not interested.”

Stevie doesn’t interfere, though he wants to. He misses Mrs. Carra—she’s funny and sharp just like her son, and he feels warm when she looks at him, as if he’s one of her own children.

“You should go, maybe,” Stevie suggests cautiously.

“Don’t wanna go.”

“I didn’t want to get out of bed that day,” Stevie points out, “the day we left here to go down to the ocean. I didn’t want to get out of bed. You made me.”

“Stevie, that’s different—“

“I’m just saying, J. I didn’t want to get up. I didn’t _want_ to go. But now I’m really, _really_ fucking glad I went down to the beach with you. Sometimes you have to do something you don’t want to do, to get to somewhere better.”

Jamie’s looking at him, clearly torn. “Did my mother put you up to this?” he demands, playful so he can avoid the real question at hand.

“Are you ever going to tell your person you love them?”

Jamie’s eyes flash and he mutters to his mother that he has to go and hangs up the phone.

“Why do you _do_ that?” Jamie snaps, “why do you—you just _assume_ that they’ll say yes. They won’t! They won’t say yes. So no, I’m never, _ever_ going to tell them—and by the way, stop calling them _my_ person, because they’re _not_ mine and they never will be!”

For the first time in four years, he looks a little broken, a little torn apart, and Stevie aches for him.

“I just want you to be happy, J.”

“I _am_ happy—“ it’s Jamie’s automatic response, at this point.

“Happier, James,” Stevie says, voice soft, “I want you to be as happy as you can possibly be. Go on the blind date. Who knows? Maybe you’ll find love.”

“Stevie, I already _found_ love. It didn’t make me happy the first time, or the second.” He sounds tired, and Stevie just—god, he wants Jamie’s stupid person to _wake up_ and realize that they could have something amazing.

“Maybe third time’s the charm,” Stevie says with a little shrug, “you just told me you’ll never, ever tell your—_the_ person. Might as well start over with someone new, don’t you think?”

“I was just going to wait for it to—to pass, I guess. I wasn’t going to go for anyone until it passed. The problem is—god, the problem is it just won’t _pass_. I just—every day it gets worse and _worse_ and—“ God, Stevie can hear his heartbreak, can see the pain of it on his face, and it tears him up inside in an entirely different way from Xabi leaving. Is this how Jamie had felt, seeing him hurt so much, day in and day out? Stevie hopes not, because feeling this is just—miserable. He wants to fix it all, somehow, but he can’t.

“Go on the date, J,” he says one last time, leaning up to kiss Jamie’s cheek, “you deserve to have something good.”

He’s just on his way upstairs when he hears Jamie talking.

“Sure, Mum.” He sounds defeated, as if he’s lost a battle instead of agreed to go on a date, probably with someone beautiful. “I’ll go. I don’t—well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll go, okay?”

Stevie should be happy.

He feels lonelier than he’s felt since he’d left Xabi’s house and sat on that empty platform, waiting for the train.

\---  


Stevie almost forgets about it. He almost forgets about it, because when he comes downstairs for dinner a few minutes later, Jamie’s got pasta and he’s smiling at him and he brings up something from training, some little funny moment and it’s all so _normal_.

He almost forgets about it, but Jamie doesn’t look him in the eye like he used to, unflinching and unafraid. He almost forgets, except for the fact that it’s one of the things he thinks about at night, before the sleep aid kicks in. When Stevie sits too close to him, he doesn’t sink into the contact, or wrap an arm around his shoulders. He just inches away, slowly, as if he doesn’t want Stevie to see him doing it.

As much as things change in the small ways, they really don’t change at all in the big ways. Jamie still wakes him in the morning, they still eat every meal together, at home or at Melwood. Jamie’s still careful not to bring up Real Madrid or Xabi or anything that might hurt.

Stevie still lives with him, even though it’s been a month and a half at this point.

Jamie still doesn’t tell him to go, still doesn’t tell him _no_, not ever, except when it’s about his person.

Then again, Stevie doesn’t ask about his person anymore. He thinks about the look on Jamie’s face every single day, the way he’d looked so anguished as he’d talked about his person, and how they’d never ever want him. It makes Stevie hurt, to think that Jamie feels unloved, unwanted, especially when he’s made Stevie feel so loved these past few months.

\---  


But one day, after training, Jamie mutters something about going to get ready.

“Get ready for what?” Stevie asks, because he’d genuinely forgotten.

“The date,” Jamie said dryly, “you know, the one that’s going to change my life? The one you really wanted me to go on? It’s tonight.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Jamie agrees. “Oh.”

He goes upstairs and Stevie goes outside, grabbing a football and a pair of old boots. He dribbles the ball just a little bit, warming up, and then he starts taking shots into the net that Jamie has set up.

Jamie comes down a few minutes later, a little furrow in between his eyebrows as he watches Stevie drill one into the top corner.

“Don’t overdo it,” he says quietly, “we’re still getting back.”

Stevie nods, and he goes to pick up the ball before he looks over at Jamie.

He’s wearing these dark jeans, fitted tight along his backside, thighs, and calves. His dress shirt is light blue, and it makes his eyes stand out. It’s tucked neatly into his jeans, and he’s wearing a nice belt and all in all, Stevie thinks he looks kind of gorgeous.

“Do I look alright?” Jamie asks, noticing the way Stevie’s eyes are on him. He nervously adjusts his cuffs, unbuttoning them to roll up his forearms.

“Better than alright,” Stevie says to him with a little smile, “where are you taking them?”

“Meeting her,” Jamie says with a little shrug, “at a restaurant. It’s just dinner, I think, so I should be back home pretty soon. You know there’s food in the fridge, you can warm it up—“

“I’m twenty-nine years old, I think I can manage,” Stevie says mildly, “go on. She’ll love you, and if she doesn’t, she doesn’t deserve you.”

\---  


Stevie drills shots and practices dribbling and targeting for another hour and a half. Then he goes inside and warms up some leftovers for dinner. He checks the time and wonders when Jamie will come home.

He sits in front of the television, figuring it’s as good a way to wait as any. His eyes start to get heavy, and he starts to shift, putting his feet up on the sofa and pulling a pillow under his head. The tv’s still on when he drifts off.

He wakes in the morning of his own accord. It’s quiet and he blinks, disoriented because there’s less light in the living room than he has in his room.

He stumbles into the kitchen, but Jamie’s not there. He frowns, confused because Jamie’s always awake before him in the morning, always.

He grabs his phone because they’re going to be late for training, and won’t _that_ send the boys’ tongues wagging—

Oh. It’s their day off. They don’t have training today. He goes upstairs, rubbing the grit out of the corners of his eyes, and looks in on Jamie, fast asleep in his bed. His room is nice and dark, the sunlight dimmed by the drawn curtains.

Stevie hardly thinks about it, just walks in quietly and lifts up the covers. He slides in, brain clear enough to note that he’s never slept in Jamie’s bed before but fuzzy enough not to notice the importance of that fact.

Jamie stirs just a little bit, turning over and huffing out a little breath. One of his arms winds around Stevie’s middle, heavy and warm.

“’S’it mornin’?” Jamie mumbles.

“Not yet,” Stevie whispers back, “go back to sleep.”

Jamie hums a little bit and shifts a little bit closer to him.

Stevie closes his eyes, trying to ignore the unfamiliar scent, the light, flowery perfume that clings to Jamie’s skin. It’s not easy, but here, in Jamie’s sheets, he’s able to find Jamie in each breath. After that, it’s easy, to let the warmth and the comfort and the scent lull him back to sleep.

\---

  
When he wakes, his mind is clearer and more rested and he realizes the enormity of what he’s done, the cruelty of it. He’s the one who’d pushed Jamie to go out, and when he’d come back late, he’d crawled into his bed, because—honestly, Stevie can’t even figure out _why_ he did it.

Jamie comes back into the room, yawning with a towel around his hips. He’s just come out of the shower, and Stevie’s only half awake, so he’s allowed to notice the lines of his muscles and how nice they are to look at.

He watches through eyes that are just barely open, as the towel drops and Jamie gets dressed.

When Jamie goes downstairs, Stevie opens his eyes and pads silently over to his own room, jumping into the shower himself. He goes downstairs before Jamie can come back to wake him, because he doesn’t want him to see that he’s not in bed anymore. He can’t explain why, only that it feels important, to meet Jamie on neutral ground.

“Oh, you’re up? Good, I was just about done with the eggs—can you put the toast in and put the kettle on?” Jamie’s still his normal, wonderful self, in his sweatpants and his ragged t-shirt. Stevie wonders if one day Jamie’s partner will look at this t-shirt, with its frayed hem, and throw it away.

Jamie’s whistling as he splits up the eggs and puts them onto the plates. He doesn’t normally whistle when he cooks.

“You’re in a good mood,” Stevie remarks.

“It feels like a good day,” Jamie says with a little smile.

“How was your date?”

“She was alright. She was really smart. She works in finance.”

“Was she… pretty?”

“Beautiful, yeah.”

Stevie goes quiet, but only for a few seconds. “Why didn’t you wake me when you got home?”

“You looked comfortable. So I just turned off the telly and went up to bed.”

“When did you get home, anyway?”

“Late. Later than I wanted to, anyway. We went for a drink afterwards. I only had water, but she had a few, so I had to drive her home—she was all giggly, it was kind of cute, actually. But then it made me a little late coming home. You didn’t have to wait up for me, though.”

“I wanted to hear how it went.”

“Well, now you know,” Jamie says with a little smile.

\---  


The good mood continues all day, and frankly, Stevie’s not sure he likes it. Jamie’s smiling too much.

The next day, Jamie goes out to the grocery store and when he asks Stevie if he wants to come too, Stevie says he’s tired and says no.

Instead, he watches Jamie go and opens the door to his closet. He looks at the rack his clothes are hanging on, his trousers folded in a drawer.

He looks around at it and he starts pulling hangers out and laying them on the bed.

It’s strange to be doing this again so soon after the last time. He bites at his lip and stands up, walking across the hall to Jamie’s room. He nudges open the door and walks in, heading straight towards the closet.

He breathes in deep and goes through the hangers until he finds a sweater he likes. He plucks it off the hangers and walks back to his room, careful to leave the door ajar, just as he’d found it.

He folds up the sweater carefully and puts it in his bag. Then he starts with the rest of his things, folding more carefully than he’s ever folded in his life.

“What are you doing?” Jamie asks him, sounding bewildered as he stands in the doorway.

“Packing,” Stevie mutters.

“Yeah, I mean, I can see that—you want to leave?” There’s something in Jamie’s eyes, beyond just the confusion. He looks a little hurt, almost. He ought to be happy, not having to hold Stevie’s hand and get him through every single day anymore.

“I just thought maybe if you brought someone over, it would be awkward, y’know?”

“Who would I bring over? You know my family and almost all of my friends—“

“Your date from the other night, maybe?”

Jamie comes over and sits down on his bed, making sure Stevie’s looking him in the eyes before he speaks. “I’m not seeing her again, Stevie.”

Stevie puts down the hanger he’s holding on to and just stares at him.

“What?”

“I’m not seeing her again,” Jamie says patiently.

“Why not? She made you so happy! You said she was smart and beautiful and you came home late—“

“You know what, why don’t you put all your stuff back where it belongs, and afterwards, we can order a pizza and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Stevie smiles at him. “You’re buying.”

“Bullshit, _you’re_ the one who had a hissy fit and started packing!” Jamie fires back.

Stevie laughs at that. “Fine, you cheapskate, I’ll buy. I spoil you too much.” It’s the other way around, really, but the words make Jamie smile, and that’s the only thing that counts.

Jamie makes the phone call and lays back and watches Stevie until he gets bored, roughly two minutes later. Then he sits up and starts helping, pulling clothes out of the bag and folding the trousers and hanging up the shirts. They keep working until they get to the last piece of clothing in the bag. It’s Jamie’s sweater, the one that Stevie had stolen because he’d thought he would be have the packing done by the time Jamie’d gotten back. He’d even hoped to be back in his own house. Well, hoped and dreaded in equal measure.

Stevie mentally curses and looks at Jamie, who’s staring at the innocuous sweater, sitting at the bottom of the duffel bag in a neatly folded rectangle. He has that little furrow in between his brows, and Stevie sort of wants the earth to swallow him whole.

“I—“ He has no idea where he’s going with this, none whatsoever. “J—I—“

“Keep it,” Jamie says softly, “you can have it.”

Stevie doesn’t move, so Jamie does. He’s quiet as he stands up, taking the sweater in his hands and hanging it up in Stevie’s closet, right next to all of his clothes.

“Pizza should be here soon,” he says with a little smile, “and I don’t want to hear that you ‘forgot your wallet,’ Gerrard.”

\---  


Things settle, after that. Jamie stops pushing him away when he sits too close, and it’s back to just to the casual physical intimacy, the way that Stevie settles when Jamie wraps his arm around him.

Jamie starts brushing his teeth in Stevie’s bathroom every night. Some nights, he goes back to sleep in his own bed, but some nights Stevie asks him to stay, and he does. Some nights, Stevie doesn’t ask him to stay, but misses him too much to fall asleep. On those nights, he crosses the hall and sneaks into Jamie’s bedroom and into Jamie’s bed. Jamie usually doesn’t say anything when the bed dips under Stevie’s weight, just rolls over and throws an arm around Stevie.

He walks down to the kitchen to get a glass of water one day and hears Jamie talking quietly.

“Yeah, mum, she was great. Really nice girl. I just—I told you, I’m not interested. I’m good with the way things are. Honestly, I mean it. No, I’m not lonely, I’m fine. Really, Mum. Yeah. No, I really mean it. Love you too, talk soon.”

This time, Stevie comes down and gets his glass of water and settles down next to Jamie on the sofa. “Another blind date?” he asks.

“Yeah. Mum doesn’t know how to quit,” Jamie says fondly, letting his head fall to the side, until it’s resting on Stevie’s shoulder.

“Do you wanna go?”

“Honestly? Not really. Do you want me to go?”

“Honestly? Not really.”

Jamie laughs a little bit at him. Stevie wraps an arm around him and they turn on the telly.

Weeks pass in their own comfortable routine. The boys stop talking so much about them, and if they slip and do, Jamie just gives them a dirty look and they fall silent.

They pack and travel abroad for preseason, for just a week and a half, training in sunny LA. They have a day off to go to the beach, and Stevie watches Jamie in the sun—the sand here is softer than where they’d gone, and the sun is brighter and the ocean is bluer, and Jamie’s skin is a little tanner.

He stands there in blue swim trunks that hang low on his hips and Stevie watches him. He takes one step forward, and another, and then he’s waist deep in the water and off to swim. Stevie stands still, watching him go, feeling the warmth on his skin, watching the light glint off of Jamie’s wet skin when his arms come up on the upstroke.

He stands there, watching Jamie get smaller and smaller.

But only for a minute, and then he’s following behind him, feeling the water of a different ocean, less familiar as it urges him out towards Jamie. He lets the water push at him a little bit and inhales deeply, and then he’s swimming out to meet him.

It’s beautiful. Stevie thinks he might’ve enjoyed it a bit more if it had been just him and Jamie coming for vacation. The other boys are around, being rowdy and then they have training and team bonding and promotional things, and between all of that, it feels a lot like a work trip. It’s about the best kind of work trip a man can ask for, so he can’t complain. Still, he thinks back to that small town, the bakery where Jamie would buy him something for dessert, the cinema where their fingers had brushed against each other, the bedsheets he’d cried into when the ache of missing Xabi had been too awful. He remembers the weight of Jamie’s hands on him, the way he’d rubbed his back when he’d cried, and the way it had reminded Stevie almost of his mother, in some soothing way.

Maybe one day they’ll go back to that place, find that peace again.

It’s been two and a half months since Stevie moved in, and he spends most of his nights in Jamie’s arms, no matter where they are.

\---  


The season’s starting with a game at against Newcastle home. Stevie feels those same butterflies in his stomach that he always feels before any game, but especially before the first game of the season.

He’s got the a young mascot at his side, a little boy holding his hand and looking up at him like he’s his hero. Stevie looks down at the kid and pats him on the head a little, gentle as he does so. The boy beams up at him and Stevie figures he can’t be doing too badly in his life, if he can be here and do this.

He turns and looks down at his team, checking on each of his players. Finally, he meets Jamie’s eyes. Jamie smiles at him, eyes crinkling, and his expression is so warm. Stevie doesn’t have to speak to him to know what he’s thinking, to know that he _believes_ in Stevie, for whatever reason, even after all the things he’s seen.

But there’s something else—had that always been there, in Jamie’s eyes? That look of adoration, that tenderness?

How long has Stevie had that aimed at him? How long has he failed to see it?

The butterflies in his stomach keep swirling, but it’s for a different reason now.

The time comes and Stevie takes the mascot’s hand and leads the boys out onto the pitch.

He scores one and Jamie jumps onto him. Stevie wraps his arms around him and holds on tight.

The boys are buzzing after, in the locker room, but Stevie is quiet. For once, he doesn’t feel the need to say anything. He glances at Jamie, who smiles at him, wide and warm and beautiful, dimples carving deep into his cheeks.

\---

He doesn’t say anything until they’re in bed that night, until he’s nestled into Jamie’s arms, too close for either of them to run away.

“It’s me, isn’t it?”

“Hm?”

“Your person,” Stevie whispers, “it’s me.”

“I told you, didn’t I?” Jamie says softly, “not mine.”

“Could be, if you wanted me to be.”

Jamie inhales slow, and Stevie notes the shakiness in his breath. He’s nervous. He’s the most fearless man Stevie’s ever known, and Stevie makes him nervous. “I—yeah, Steve, I do.”

Stevie nudges even closer and Jamie holds him a little closer.

“You gonna kiss me or what, Carra?”

Jamie shifts them slowly, carefully, until Stevie’s lying on his back, Jamie’s body on top of his. Jamie’s supporting much of his own weight, his chest hovering just above Stevie’s. He can hardly see him in the darkness of the room, he’s all warmth and weight. He leans down and strokes Stevie’s cheek first.

“Don’t wanna miss,” he mutters, “how fuckin’ _embarrassing_ would that be—“

Stevie’s still smiling when he feels the pressure of lips against his. He puts his hands on Jamie—they land on his shoulders first, and then shift up to his neck. His fingers are pressed into the short hair at the back of Jamie’s neck, so much softer than he’d thought it would be.

Jamie pulls away after the first kiss, but Stevie pulls him back in. “More, more,” he mutters, fingers playing at the neckline of the t-shirt Jamie’d worn to bed, “and we don’t need this, do we?”

Jamie’s lips are trailing down his neck and across his throat. “I don’t think we do,” he agrees, voice low.

\---

It’s been six months, and they’re lying in bed, Jamie whispering something against the skin of Stevie’s stomach.

“What was that? My ears are up here, y’know,” Stevie says playfully.

Jamie does know, and he kisses his way up, past abs and chest and neck and jaw, until Stevie can feel his hot breath near his ear.

“I think you should sell the house,” he murmurs.

“Would you want me here? For good?”

Jamie pulls away and looks at him. “Have you ever once thought I wanted you to go?”

“No.”

“Have I ever made you feel like I didn’t want you here with me?” Jamie’s voice is serious as he looks at him, searching Stevie’s face for any sign of dishonesty.

“No, never.”

“That’s because I never wanted you to go. I never did,” he says softly, “and I don’t think I ever will.”

Stevie puts his house up on the market two weeks later.

\---

  
That Captain Fantastic is sleeping with his vice is the worst kept secret of the Liverpool dressing room. It never leaves the club, but whenever they’re late to training (and it happens more than a few times), there are significant looks and good-natured jokes about morning delight, and when Jamie hears, he glares at the culprit until Stevie touches his arm, smiling. The whispers start up again five minutes later, and this time, Jamie doesn't have the heart to stop them.

He can’t be _too_ mad, after all. It’s all true.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the picture prompt of a train platform at around dusk. 
> 
> Many thanks to Avi, who came up with the idea and also helped me when I was stuck! Also, thanks so much for always being so supportive of everything I write--it means so much and it's definitely helped me get stuff written that otherwise would not have gotten written.


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